I don't know how to write perfect poems for you,
that's why forgive me if they don't suit you, they
don't have to. They have to be behind bars of my
metaphoric steeled heart; a puzzle that no one 
else except me knows; a problem only I can solve
because I'm afraid--afraid that you'll know; afraid
that you'll keep your distance; afraid that I'll stoop
down low because all of your hello's turned   into
heartless goodbye's. Once I  launched   a   broken
rocket to the moon, there engraved, that I wish I
knew, how to be something to you. And before,
I know all the thousands steps up to your door, I
tried to knock there several times more after,
but at the porch was a broken letter, saying that
you'd miss her.

I don't know how to be perfect in your eyes. They
sparkle beyond the lines---captivating my heart,
holding me underwater, until my breath goes out
of the core. No, I can't do this anymore. Cupid's
arrow miss, and I watch you drown in bliss, while
me, in tears. I told you once that I'd fall, once you
tell me to. One step, I like you.

I hold on my breath still, asking my heart if I could
really be alive after the fall. What if you're not down
there to catch my fall? What if you're never there
even before?

And my heart yells your name. The million dead stars
spell out your eyes. But my mind tells me otherwise.
But being the reckless me, I still jumped.  Even though
at the back of my mind, I know liking you is suicide.